


Abstract

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Gen, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:15:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22167727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Data dyed.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	Abstract

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

As soon as Jean-Luc reaches the bridge, he knows that _something’s_ going on, even though no one reports to him the source of their obvious amusement. It doesn’t take Councilor Troi’s abilities to see that many of his officers are actively trying not to giggle, because that would be horribly inappropriate on the bridge of a starship, _especially_ when their captain’s around. Jean-Luc straightens out his uniform and takes his place in the captain’s chair, under the false assumption that soon or later, someone will clue him in.

No one does. Jean-Luc has to prompt, “Report, Number One.”

“Report, Sir?” Will gives him that forced look of deliberate innocence that only confirms all of Jean-Luc’s suspicions.

Jean-Luc icily clarifies, “On whatever I missed while I was in my ready room.”

“Ah. The shift change.”

“And?”

Will gestures vaguely towards the viewscreen, where it’s the same streaking white stars they’ve seen for days. “We’re still on course for Mrennenimus IV, no unusual readings to stop for.”

Jean-Luc frowns at the helm, because he thinks he’s spotted something unusual. The tips of Commander Data’s ears appear to be _pink_ , the nape of his neck a bright lime green. Jean-Luc glances back at Will, giving him one last chance to come clean. Will smiles. 

Jean-Luc pushes out of his chair. He strolls across his bridge and around Data’s chair, where he freezes mid-step. Data’s shown up for duty as always, and he’s clearly functioning well enough, if his hands flying across the keys are anything to go by. But instead of the usual pale gold, his skin is a kaleidoscope of mismatching colour swatches in no discernable pattern.

Jean-Luc crosses his arms and asks, “Would you care to explain yourself, Mr. Data?”

“Sir?”

“I understand body paint isn’t exactly _against_ regulation, but I would still appreciate an explanation for _any_ unusual occurrences on my bridge.”

Data nods curtly. “Ah, I understand, Sir. I was merely attempting to ascertain whether or not body paint would be a quicker, more efficient way to disguise myself for away missions rather than Dr. Crusher’s existing treatment. Given that sickbay is often busy during such times, an alternative would be beneficial.”

He ends the statement there, as though that explains anything. Jean-Luc dryly asks, “And where exactly do you think you’re going to blend in like that, Data?”

Someone over by tactical mutters, “An amateur art gallery,” and another person snickers. 

Data tilts his head as he does when he’s making a concession. He admits, “I must not have explained my intentions clearly enough to Lieutenant Kirk before he began painting me. Will it be a problem, Captain?”

Clearly, it’ll be a problem to the crew’s concentration. Jean-Luc glances over them, then weighs out the boring nature of their current mission. Ultimately, he decides, “For now, no, but I expect you to be back to your usual appearances by tomorrow’s shift.”

Data’s purple eyebrows draw together. “I have a hair appointment after this shift, Sir. Shall I cancel it?”

Jean-Luc sighs and shakes his head, giving up and returning to his chair.


End file.
